War medicine
by Siean Riley
Summary: A soldier. Solitude and mission.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I do not own characters and I don't make any profits on writing.

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Author's note: Arianka – thanks!

**Critical state**

John Hamish Watson, a doctor and a captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers learned to live with the war rhythm, these long, very long times of the immense boredom and waiting interspersed by shorter ones, when the waiting lacked of this boredom, and even shorter times of the overwhelming chaos. But only when he got to know his colleagues' work from the other side and when the war ended for him, when he found himself in the noise of London, with a veteran card and a walking stick in his hand, he understood how much this rhythm of war became second nature to him.

So when that slim man with strangely pale eyes acted so openly towards him, as if they had already spent many Afghan winters in the same barrack, and when he offered him sharing a flat, Watson agreed without hesitating, glad that he didn't have to explain who he was and what he was doing. It soon turned up that his new flatmate lived with the war rhythm too and Watson's world was normal again. The doctor almost heard the crack, as if a dislocated joint went back on its place, when the reality was again made of the time of waiting and the time of chaos.

So he had his war or maybe its substitute and he had a comrade-in-arms. But war reminded him of its other feature. That the people who fought could disappear in one moment. And so doctor Watson had to watch helplessly as the dark silhouette was falling from the roof, like he had watched a smashed helicopter or a transporter burning on a mine. But this time there were no colleagues he could curse or cry with, or just know that they had watched too.

Oh, of course there were other people. But Mrs. Hudson, despite her open mind, didn't know anything about the war loneliness. About what made you trust someone more than yourself. She couldn't know what was it like to be a soldier and suddenly find himself away from war. Maybe John could look for her support, she suffered too after all, but during last year and a half he had learned to protect her, just like Sherlock had used to. He didn't want to burden her with his feelings.

There was also Greg Lestrade, Detective Inspector Lestrade. He knew the war on the London streets. He knew and understood it, but John in his grief and loss still couldn't forget the cold of the handcuffs on his wrist and that crazy run. He couldn't trust. For him, Lestrade had stood on the other side when he came to arrest Sherlock. Because there _were_ sides. That night there was John Hamish Watson and Sherlock Holmes. The rest of the world were enemies, these declared ones and these who were just disturbing: potential allies and possible innocent victims. Civilians who weren't concerned by the war and who shouldn't have been on it. So Lestrade was outside John's world too. A world, in which doctor Watson needed only one thing – a man who would understand what he felt, who could be trusted enough to allow himself to feel.

He tried to explain it all to Ella, knowing that the therapist really wanted to help him. But like she couldn't guide him between the world of war and the world of peace earlier, she couldn't do it now, at least in his mind.

"It will pass, John," she kept saying, professionally calm and warm. "You know it will. You just have to name what you feel and accept it."

"And I don't?"

"You said that, John."

"If you say so..."

"You can't run away from it, John."

"I am not."

"Yes, you are. You keep escaping, building an illusion around yourself. It is a dangerous way for soldier, and you still try to be one."

Watson sighed. It had no sense. Though the therapist was trying to help him, he couldn't tell her what he felt. He guessed that in her mind he was again on the beginning of the road he had to make to exist again. Maybe she was right, but he couldn't do that. Not in front of her. The history repeated itself and John felt like he had felt before that meeting in the park. Except the fact that the war in London wasn't an illusion. And if so, he had to live with its rules.

So John Hamish Watson woke up every morning in a rent room, ate and went out. He visited his therapist, but he usually walked around London streets, trying to tire himself enough to sleep without dreams. To make the pain in his leg shade everything else he felt.

He lived because he was too stubborn to let the war win.

For the time being.

Xxx

Greg Lestrade had had many cases, more or less difficult. There were some he forgot about in the moment he closed the acts, but there were also ones returning then in bad dreams. But the worst nightmare was feeling helpless. And so, in desperation and attempt to defend himself from that feeling, he had once broken rules and asked for help a person he could never officially call his friend. He withstood his fancies, his harsh comments, strange wishes, but he was sure that this friend would lead him to the end of the case, so Inspector would be able to breathe freely again.

He didn't foresee one thing, though. His friend took cases not only from him, and there were some so complicated that one day he himself became a case for Greg. He was suspected, arrested, a fugitive and at the end he was a body in the morgue and left Lestrade ungrateful obligation to inform his family. A painful obligation, but also theending the whole story. All inspector was left were the consequences of his first decision.

And then it appeared that in fact it wasn't the end and that the case was still in progress.

To be continued…


	2. Chapter 2

**Part two**

**Stabilization**

When Lestrade came again, doctor Watson still couldn't agree with the fact that the war had ended for him. The one in Afghanistan, that had given him scars and disability, and the one in London, which saved his body, but had wounded his soul equally painfully. At their meetings the therapist kept telling him that he should try to calm down, change his life style and stop thinking that he was on the enemy's ground. She warned him that he was walking a dangerous way and might end in a situation when his health, both physical and psychical, would be in danger. She didn't precise what she meant but Watson guessed that in her mind the illusion of war was dangerous to a veteran, who could become too easily convinced that he was left alone, with no help, surrounded by enemies. As if he didn't already know this.

He ignored these advice and warnings. He knew he was cheating himself, but it was easier to live this way. He still had in mind this meeting one and a half year before, the abandoned warehouse and the sudden feeling that the world had returned on the right way. And the painfully plainspoken diagnosis that he, a doctor and a soldier, didn't need peace and quiet, but the time of war and danger. This feeling that he was on the enemy's ground, helped him deal with his emotions. On the mission there was no time for grieving. No time to reflect the loss. On the mission were only tasks to do and dangers to avoid.

And so Watson, having no other options, did give himself daily orders. He went to his job and spent there enough time to be tired and sleep without dreams after returning to the flat he had rent in the suburbs. From time to time he met with Mrs. Hudson, drank a cup of tea and ate some cake, but these meetings were short, because the woman's grief touched everything he tried not to think about and not to remember. Everything he couldn't share with her.

He was alone and he wanted to be, so he welcomed the inspector on his doorstep with a rather unfriendly growl.

"I need to talk." Lestrade wasn't discouraged by this greeting.

"Speak. Quickly."

"You know it was an order."

Watson closed his eyes for a moment. Yes, right, hierarchy in the police. Lestrade was some kind of soldier too, so when he had gotten an order…

"Come in," he replied and let the inspector inside.

When Lestrade looked around the empty room, the walls covered with a dirty wallpaper and the old, unkempt furniture, Watson switched on the kettle in the kitchenette.

"I have only tea," he warned.

"It will do."

"How are you?"

"I'm still working."

The doctor rose his eyebrows.

"Yes, I do. And more, I still have the same team. I know, I am still surprised that I avoided degradation or being fired, but the whole case was hushed up."

"That bastard had pangs of remorse," murmured Watson.

"Who?"

"Sherlock's brother."

„I know he had a brother…" Lestrade winced, either because of mentioning the elder of the Holmes brothers or using the past tense. "But what did he…"

Watson turned his head away. The water boiled, so he made tea in two half-broken cups. Then he replied.

"This bastard betrayed him."

"Who?"

"This brother of his," John almost belched this word. "He told this maniac everything he knew about Sherlock. Everything what happened next, these kidnapped and poisoned children, these break-ins, these articles… It was all because of him!" he hissed with fury.

"Jesus Christ!" gasped Lestrade.

"He must have felt guilty if he saved you."

"So it would seem…" The inspector's anger faded as quickly as it appeared. "Now some things aren't so surprising to me," he added. "But that's not why I came to you."

"Then what?"

"The Holmes' case is still not closed."

John closed his eyes for a moment. The rough concrete, the blood on the sidewalk mixed with the rain, cold, polished marble under his fingers… Could there be things less definite?

"Why?" he asked finally.

"Bureaucracy. Every detail has to be explained. What happened at Bart's didn't close the investigation."

"And you are still in charge?"

"Yes," Lestrade didn't look away. "And that's why I got all the materials from those break-ins. Moriarty alias Brook is dead, but he had his subordinates. Some things seemed wrong. You know how it is, you see something and feel that something is wrong," Lestrade turned his cup in his hands. "And these children… You know, that girl recognized him on the photograph. She was convinced Sherlock killed her father."

"What?"

"You heard me. Someone showed her his photo and told her who that is. A mercenary killer, if she sees him, she should scream because he already killed his father and he will come to get her and her brother. That's why they have to escape and hide in that factory. Wait there until the good man save their mother. It was a nice little fairytale of Mr. Brook. She recognized him too, as soon as she saw his photograph. Donovan couldn't meet my eyes for a week. But that's not the most important thing."

"So what is? What can be more important than the fact that you made a mistake?" snorted John.

"Proofs that will clear Sherlock's name."

"Speak."

Lestrade leaned over the table.

"I need to be careful. I am sure I have a spy among my people."

"Moriarty's man."

"Exactly."

"So…"

"So I need your help, doctor. Someone I can trust. Someone who worked with Sherlock and remember how he solved the cases. Who knows, how he looked for the clues. Who knows his methods. We need to find this spy at Yard. He will lead us to the others."

Watson straightened on his chair. He was right. The war he felt around him asked for him one more time. He had a comrade-in-arms again. And a mission.

"You have your consulting detective again, inspector Lestrade," he said.

Xxx

A room in a distant part of London was very similar to Watson's flat, maybe even more neglected and dingy, but Lestrade didn't pay attention. He was too nervous and angry at himself and at the circumstances. He hated lying to his friends.

"He agreed," he said quietly.

The dark haired man put his notebook aside.

"I knew," he smiled and Lestrade knew that it was a sincere happiness. "We wouldn't manage without him. Now we can begin."

_To be continued…_


	3. Chapter 3

**Note from translator: **I'm sorry it took me so long to translate this chapter, the original story is already finished, so I am the only one to blame for the delay. Arianka.

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**Part three: Operation**

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Medical studies and army life taught John Watson that there was no such thing like an ideally completed operation. It didn't matter whether it was set in an operating room or somewhere outside, it didn't matter if it concerned just a single patient with his illness or a group of political or military targets. There was always something that appeared in the middle of the action and destroyed everything. It wasn't that bad if it just appeared on the operating table that the patient should be cut deeper or sewn quicker. When a sleepy village turned out to be an armed base, the character of the operation changed rapidly, unexpectedly and everyone could experience these changes. The results were various, sometimes fatal. An army doctor had to be aware that things like that happened, and that he had to rescue everyone he could and shouldn't waste his breath for cursing, because there were more important tasks to do. And that was the only thing he could do. Later there was a time for cursing. For those, who survived. And were able to curse, of course.

His current mission was almost monotonous at first. He still went to his flat in the suburbs, he still worked, and he visited Mrs. Hudson now and then. Lestrade came to him in the evenings, bringing some papers, photos or testimonies, asking him to look at them and search for connections. He hoped that someone who wasn't a policeman would see more than people from Scotland Yard.

The documents the Inspector brought sometimes came from strange sources. Asked by Watson, Lestrade admitted who did he get them from, and the doctor wasn't surprised. He suspected that the elder Holmes was trying to pay for his fault, his mistake, and maybe he also wanted to revenge his brother in the legal way. As if the revenge itself could bring Sherlock back to life. Watson didn't condemn Mycroft any more, he himself wanted to have this satisfaction too, when the last Moriarty's men would end behind the bars.

Lestrade offered him a discreet security too, but Watson declined. He exercised a lot in his free time to have a good condition and never left his gun. He was sure he would be able to deal with any danger, he missed it and almost wanted someone to start a fight. He needed this moment of violence to let the war go with its own rhythm, because the doctor had a feeling as if the city around him was the enemy's ground, where he should keep his eyes wide open and be ready to notice even the smallest signs of danger.

He already saw first signs. At first they were just small irregularities, disruptions in the city daily life. An old man without leg, sadly playing flute at the tube's stairs. Two boys, probably from Jamaica, as he guessed from their dreadlocks and green-red-yellow shirts, dancing on the street corner. A girl wandering around and looking at the shop windows with her empty eyes. They showed and disappeared, always too quick to let him say if their presence was something more than pure coincidence. Or, everyone would say so, except John Watson. He saw them, like he usually saw the symptoms of an illness in his patients. The soldier he was saw them as elements of city, elements of disguise. Because who would hide better on a London street than a blind woman in colorful feathers, singing operatic arias out loud? Everyone passed her, either looking away or throwing a coin into a decorative box next to the singer.

He didn't tell anyone about his suspicions. The days passed and these colorful guardians were the only proof that something was happening around doctor Watson. He didn't mind it. On the war, they often waited long, not only in a peaceful, boring base, but also outside, when they had to last, on their wits' ends, because they couldn't miss alarm signal. But nevertheless, the events surprised him.

When Greg Lestrade blurted that he knew where they could find Moran, ex-colonel involved in weapon trade and murders, Watson didn't hesitate even for a moment. He forced the Inspector to let him take part in the arrest. Surprisingly, he didn't even have to take that effort, from some time Lestrade didn't care for the rules, and after the Holmes and Brook case he had around him people loyal enough to let this detail passed unnoticed. Besides, there were also things such as guilt, friendship and debts from the past, better times. The inspector knew also Watson's personal reasons, why he wanted to be among people who would arrest Moran and he didn't see any reason to decline John or himself this satisfaction.

Especially when it was supposed to be an easy operation.

So easy, that it had to go wrong.

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Bang!

A hit can rolled across the concrete, metallic noise echoed in the empty factory hall, followed by the sudden patter. A slam of metal door and someone's shout soon drowned in the crash of gunfire.

And then the hell begun.

John Watson clang his back to one of the pillars in the hall and cursed, thinking briefly what he, a doctor and ex-soldier, was doing in this place. And why in the hell had he thought that he hadn't had enough of firing in his life. But he knew these were rhetorical questions. He could either be here, with Lestrade's men, or sit lonely in the place he used to call home. He could try to see something in the darkness here, or stare at the empty wall over his bed. And most important – he could think now how stupid he was when he forced Lestrade to take him, or he could think over and over again about what his friend had done.

But these were just brief thoughts every soldier had, so he let them go. Their operation had just crushed, he was sure, their plain arrest changed into regular battle and for captain John Watson it was only 'here and now' that counted. And the adrenaline in his veins.

Someone shouted, one short, cut scream, that changed into a cry. The flutter of helicopter joined the noises of shots, cries and sirens.

Another doors slammed, another shoes stamped. Someone was running. In the darkness enlightened only by cars standing outside and spotlights through the roof windows, he couldn't recognize the face, but the silhouette didn't wear a police vest, so Watson jumped from behind the pillar at the fugitive.

They rolled on the concrete and Watson moaned painfully, as the impact echoed in his old shot. The man was young, strong and acted quickly. He tried to get free and push John, but then he changed his tactic and attacked. Fruitlessly. Watson pushed him to the ground and punched him strongly with his other hand, so the man went still.

"Are you ok, doctor?" A young, a bit frightened policeman helped him get up.

"Yes." Watson looked were the noises came from.

"Please don't go there, there's a regular battle…"

Watson disregarded this attempt to stop him. Battle or not, he could be more helpful there than this young constable whose hands were shaking at the mere sound of shots. And – Greg Lestrade was there, and Watson had already promised himself that he would not lose any more comrades-in-arms. It was enough he had to watch helplessly once.

And now he was again under fire, he heard the unique sound of reloading weapons, and the bullets ringing around the steel construction and concrete. Somewhere there a barrel of petrol blew up and the darkness was enlightened by fire. And Watson ran again with his comrades and jumped over the obstacles, protecting the others, until some doors went open and he and the policemen rushed into the room.

Suddenly something fell by their legs and rolled, hissing and crackling. Foggy puffs appeared in the gleams of light and the air got a sweet scent which overshadowed even the smell of powder, petrol and varnishes. Someone shouted it was a gas, someone started screaming in fear, trying to step back and escape, someone stopped him, but for John it was only the squat silhouette running though the other door that counted.

He ran after him, but suddenly his legs gave in, his shoes became strangely heavy, and his steps unsure. Suddenly he couldn't breathe, silver spots danced in the darkness in front of his eyes, and Moran, it had to be that bloody Moran, receded. John forced himself to take one more step, two more, but then the gun fell from his hand and he sank on his knees. It was difficult, too difficult to keep his head raised, he couldn't focus his gaze, his hands stiffened, he couldn't feel his feet...

A shot? Gas? It didn't matter to Watson. Whatever it was, he had been hit with it, rather effectively, judging by the rough concrete under his cheek. He saw a high silhouette with the corner of his eye, someone was walking towards him, carefully passing over the rubbish on the floor. Was it Moran coming back to finish him off? This wasn't important anymore and didn't bother him.

But this silhouette, this coat, it was all so familiar... No, impossible. It couldn't be possible. Real life wasn't a poor American movie to give him an illusion of seeing his dead friend in such situation.

He laid, stiff, not being able to move, and the man was close, so close... He knelt by Watson and in the same moment the helicopter above them made another circle and enlightened the stranger. Dark curls, thin face, sticking cheekbones, bright eyes...

_Damn American movies! _With this last thought doctor John Watson sank into darkness.

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Watson knew that he was still among alive ones, no matter what. He was sure it was possible only at this side of Styx to wake up having the worst symptoms of a hangover. Not a single mythology ever mentioned blessed souls suffering from overvoltage of ambrosia, and the damned souls shouldn't have had pleasures like drinking. Of course, someone less optimistic could say that the hangover itself would suggest that worse place in afterlife, but not John Watson. He was sure since his childhood that the hell was first of all a very hot place. And he thought that his personal hell, when he finally goes there, would look totally different.

So now, blinded by the light and stunned by the noise, he heavily turned on his side and tried to ease his stomach. Someone held his head and cleaned his face with a wet, mint handkerchief. It was so pleasant, that doctor Watson inhaled deeply and sat without any sensations. The same person gave him something to drink to wash over the awful aftertaste.

The symptoms of hangover disappeared surprisingly quickly. Stomach cramps ceased, headache lessened, light stopped dazzling, noise deafening. Watson could finally look around. He wasn't surprised when he saw a paramedic by him and that Lestrade sat on the other side of the room. The Inspector seemed to be nervous. Which meant, thought Watson, that their arrest had failed...

"What was that?" he asked as soon as the doors slammed behind the paramedic.

"Some invention of Russian antiterrorists. Only hypnagogic, fortunately." There was no joy in the Inspector's voice. There could only be one reason.

"Did he escape?"

"No."

Watson gasped, surprised. He was convinced that Lestrade was painfully disappointed that after all this mess, nerves and tragedy, after months of their difficult investigation and guerrilla war when he had to find a spy among his people, the last and the most important man involved in Sherlock Holmes' death had managed to escape.

But if the suspect had been caught, then why did the Inspector look as if he was shivering in fury?

"We have Moran," said Lestrade. "We have his men..."

"What's wrong, Greg?" Watson interrupted him. "Someone died?"

"No," answered the Inspector and inhaled deeply. "I have to go..."

Watson only nodded. He didn't try to fool himself that he was the only one who had suffered from the gas. Lestrade was strangely nervous. He probably had to go further and see the others, but also to make sure no one from the press would know that someone civilian had taken part in the police action, moreover someone close to the famous consulting detective. And most certainly he had to prepare to all that paperwork that waited for him.

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An hour later John Watson smiled bitterly to himself. Donovan drove him to his flat, he suspected she did it on the Inspector's personal request. When he fell, poisoned by the gas, he injured his knee and now it was getting more difficult to move. The Sergeant was silent all the way and so was he. Not only because they succeeded and the chase was over. Something that had led him during these last months, that had given the doctor the energy needed to function, just stopped existing. First of all, John wasn't going to say aloud what, or rather who he had seen at that brief moment in the warehouse.

And now, aching and tired, with a stiff leg, he sat in his empty flat reading about fentanyl, a gas used by Russian security service. _Hallucinations, illusions, daydreams... _Yes, that was the right explanation. There were no mawkish visions.

Xxx

Somewhere on a London street Lestrade nervously lighted a cigarette. He was about to drop that habit, but right now he couldn't refuse himself that form of comfort. Not after the action in the warehouse, when he thought for a moment that he had lost completely this time. He was still shaking at the thought that it was so close and he wouldn't think of the consequences now.

"He saw you," he said finally. "He will wonder."

"For now, he will think it was a hallucination," replied the tall, dark-haired man. "Make sure he will talk to Moran, Lestrade. He had to be prepared."

_To be continued…_


	4. Chapter 4

_This is the last part. Thank you for reading and reviewing. And thanks to Arianka for translating._

**Part four: Rehabilitation**

So this was supposed to be the end of this war. Someone would say it ended for John Watson as well as it could. He was alive and without any permanent charm, because a person who had already almost died once and was an invalid could hardly call injuries mere scratches and a wounded knee. John ignored the fact that he had to use his cane again, doing his best not to remember that he had already been in situation like that and how he had regained his fitness.

He had achieved his goal.

Colonel Sebastian Moran had been arrested, as well as his coworkers. He could palter and defend himself, he had enough money to hire a lawyer, but he knew too much from his previous employer or maybe adviser, Jim Moriaty, to let him go free. Not only police, but also secret service from probably more than just one country wanted the access to his knowledge. And they didn't want to lose it. It could take months, but now the last people from the web of connections and illegal business Moriarty had created had just lost ground under their feet. It was the best revenge to be given Sherlock Holmes' memory – to make sure nothing was left from his killer. Watson didn't doubt that Moran and his people would blame James Moriarty alias Richard Brook for everything, but it wouldn't give them anything.

But Moran thought he still had an ace up his sleeve.

xxx

"I should have destroyed you," said the colonel, when Watson sat in front of him in the separated auditorium.

"What are you talking about?!" John came here only because Lestrade had asked him to. He didn't want to see the man who worked with Moriarty.

Moran grinned in an evil way. He sat comfortably on the chair, unsuccessfully trying to imitate Moriaty's smile full of self-satisfaction.

"You, that cop and the sweet old lady. You were all supposed to be dead. That was what Moriarty had on that pal of yours, that freak detective. It was either you or him..."

Watson's hands curled up into fists, almost without his will.

"We or him?" he repeated, not sure if he could believe what he had just heard.

"Yeah. He clapped like a frog so I let you go..." the colonel grimaced, as if he still couldn't believe his own stupidity.

John's arm made a curve and fell, when Watson realized it made no sense. A thick glass wall separated him from his interlocutor. He glanced back. Lestrade waited at the doors, and his expression proved that this was the reason he had called him.

Moran spoke again.

"Are you not afraid I will finish my job?" he asked. "You know I will be free again. Soon. I know too much for them to keep me here. Like Jim. And then..."

Watson realized he was smiling too, also in an unpleasant way.

"Jim Moriarty bought his freedom from Sherlock's brother," he said calmly and waited until the meaning of his words got to the colonel.

He waited until Moran's smile disappeared, then stood up and left.

xxx

And so the war finally ended for doctor Watson.

Moran's arrest was kept secret, but someone in Scotland Yard was too frustrated or thought that some things must be public. First protocols from the investigations leaked to the newspapers and like few months earlier the tabloids raced in writing about the fake forensics genius, they now beat their breasts and hurled thunderbolts at Jim Moriarty who had mislead them all.

The doctor thought the editors were pleased anyway. A criminal talented enough to mislead the best secret forces and the genius detective, involved in arms trade and international terrorism – it was all better than an attempt to expose a fraud. And because Moriarty was not only eccentric enough, but also dead, therefore defenseless, they could write about his worst crimes all over again, ending their articles with morals. The evil lost, the good won, sale grew and Sherlock Holmes' name had been cleared.

Watson didn't care much about all this mess. Like he had once warned Sherlock, popularity and fame were deceptive. The newspapers had praised the talented detective, then ruined him, now they rehabilitated him and soon they would forget him. More important was that, paradoxically, Moran's words gave him peace. The death of Sherlock Holmes made sense now and fit into the war's rules John knew and accepted. Now he felt that something was healed in him, something he didn't know about until now, something Ella couldn't have told him about.

But despite this all, the doctor still felt insufficiency and emptiness. Ella explained to him again that he had to give himself some time for grief and making peace with his loss, for gaining new habits and learning normal reactions and relations. He agreed with her more often and admitted he missed his friend. And she answered that this was the nature of grief. Now all was supposed to be better, and John would finally learn to live in the time of peace.

The next, final farewell with Sherlock was a part of his learning, so he agreed when Mrs. Hudson called him and ask him to help her pack detective's things still left on Baker Street. John knew that Mycroft had paid the rent all these months, as if his brother was still living there. Mrs. Hudson didn't deny it was convenient for her, because despite all time that had passed, she couldn't even think about having someone else in these rooms. Now she must have made peace with her loss too and wanted to find some new tenants.

xxx

A dark-haired, tall man watched as John Hamish Watson determinately went to 221b Baker Street, limping and not looking around. The doctor was so focused on his destination, that he couldn't notice a slight movement of the curtain on the first floor.

The man turned to a woman present in the room.

"Mrs. Hudson, please don't react if you hear screaming," he said.

"Of course, of course," she reassured him and went to the doors. She turned back on the doorstep for a moment. "My dear boy," she said, tears in her eyes. "You don't even realize how happy I am!"

The end


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